The Night the Angels Sing
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Argus Filch, the grumpy, retired caretaker of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is spending his Christmas alone as usual. But this year, he will embark on a journey of revelation and healing.


**Author's Note: Ever wondered why Filch is always so grouchy, and wants nothing more than to expel as many students as possible? I believe everyone who is nasty or grouchy is nasty or grouchy for a reason, and usually that something has to do with their past. Take Snape for example. When Harry takes Occlumency lessons from him, there's one time when he sees flashes of Snape's worst memories. I think these things in his past, his family life and his experiences at school, led to him being the slimy hook-nosed bat he is now. Thus, I believe that Filch's irritable demeanor stems from his past as well. And what is his past, you may ask? We're never told much about him, other than he's a Squib. Well, this is what I think his past would be like.**

One might have said of Argus Filch that he "hated Christmas, the whole Christmas season", but that would not have been entirely correct. He didn't mind the holidays so much: the hustle and bustle, the Christmas trees sparkling in the windows, the stockings hanging over the fireplace. Frivolous people who enjoyed that sort of thing could keep at it as far as he was concerned. It was only when they tried to bring their Christmas cheer to _him_ that he minded.

Those dratted carolers! Ever since Argus had retired to this little country village, he had been plagued by runny-nosed little whelps croaking out tinny songs on his doorstep without so much as an if-you-please. After years of chasing them off his property, they had finally learned not to stop at his house on their rounds. Needless to say, Argus was flummoxed when one Christmas Eve he heard a lone voice singing just outside his window:

'_Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,  
The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head;  
The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,  
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.'_

Argus irritably peeked out through the curtains to see who would dare disturb him. Standing on the front step was a small boy, bundled up so tight it was a wonder he could sing. Argus couldn't be sure, but he thought it was little Jack Fletcher, a boy around ten who was known as the village do-gooder. He was the sort of child who shoveled snow for little old ladies and climbed trees to rescue cats. He sung in the choir at the little chapel on the hill, and was just the sort of person who went door-to-door, singing carols. Yet even he should have realized Argus didn't welcome carolers.

Argus twitched the curtains closed once more and scowled, wondering whether he should run the boy off. He was just heading towards the door when Jack started a new song.

'_Once in royal David's city stood a lowly cattle shed,  
Where a mother laid her baby in a manger for his bed:  
Mary was that mother mild, Jesus Christ her little child.'_

Suddenly, Argus was fleeting back to a Christmas many years ago, the Christmas that started his whole hatred of holiday cheer. The year the only present in his stocking was a lump of coal, the year his father had gravely announced to the whole family the shame they had known all along: Argus was a Squib. The shame, the burning in his cheeks as all his cousins and aunts and uncles had stared at him over the turkey and around the tureens of gravy. He remembered getting up from the table, and running out of the house. He remembered racing as fast as he could down the street of the little village, racing towards the little chapel on the hill. The peace and quiet in that chapel, the small nook he had discovered where he was hidden from view, where he could cry out all his shame. He remembered, remembered the hymn the choir had sung that night. The hymn about the poor little child born in a manger, who cared for his mother with meekness and gentleness. The hymn that admonished him for not being like that child.

'_God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,  
Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day,  
To save us all from Satan's pow'r when we were gone astray;  
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,  
O tidings of comfort and joy.'_

Comfort and joy? When had Argus known either one of those? It seemed that every Christmas only made his life harder to bear. His many cousins would come, jabbering excitedly about all the things they were learning at Hogwarts. They would tease him when the adults weren't around, calling him Squibbly and throwing snowballs at him. They would ask him to recite simple incantations, or to list the ingredients of a Wiggenweld potion, and laugh uproariously when he could not. They would follow him when he escaped to the chapel, calling him "Saint Squibbly" and "Prayer Boy". Once his cousin Bernard had even discovered him crying softly in his little nook, and had laughed himself silly all the way home.

He had never been able to run to his parents for comfort; they were the ones who had condemned him first for being a Squib. They told him to his face that they wished he had never been born to disgrace their family. They made him clean house, telling him that was all he was good for anyway, and hardly even gave him a decent Muggle education. The other children in the Muggle schoolhouse he was sent to shunned him because of his pimpled face and ever-present scowl. They teased him, too.

'_Silent Night! Holy Night! All is calm, all is bright  
Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild,  
Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.'_

Jack was young enough that his voice had not begun to change yet; his high, clear voice pierced the cold air like a knife. Argus remembered his secret hideout in the forest, the place he used to disappear to when he didn't think he could stand being around other people. It was a little, tangled grove just deep enough in the forest that no one could find him easily. He used to sit there in the cold, all alone, and wait for the chapel to toll out the hours. Sometimes, the quiet and the cold reminded him of the chapel that he had forsaken ever since his nook had been discovered. Sometimes, he would try to sing like the choir in the chapel, but his voice always cracked and screeched.

He used to watch one of the girls in the choir. She was very pretty, with long brown hair she always kept down. Her voice was beautiful, ringing out above the others, and sometimes she would sing a solo for Christmas. Argus would watch her, but he knew she never noticed him. And why _should_ she notice him? She was so beautiful, and he was just an ugly Squib. He used to follow her at a distance as she walked home from school, but one day she was gone, off to some prestigious Muggle university, and he never saw her again. The day she left, Argus went to his secret grove and croakily sang Christmas carols till he was hoarse.

'_What child is this, who, laid to rest, on Mary's lap is sleeping?  
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keeping?  
This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard and angels sing:  
Haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe, the son of Mary.'_

Argus began to tremble; this carol had been one of his favorites. It had lulled him to sleep when his parents had died and the relatives stopped coming for the holidays. As a man, he had gone to the chapel one last time to hear the choir. They had sung this song, as though in farewell to the man who had sought solace there his entire life. The next day he had packed his bags and gone off to Hogwarts. Hogwarts at last, but not as a student. He had been hired as the caretaker. Mucking about, mopping the halls, like a Muggle. He was forced to watch scores and scores of children enjoying the thing he had been deprived of. His torture was to see, year after year, more children learning magic when he couldn't so much as wave a wand.

And they ridiculed him, as he had been ridiculed all his life. This time, they neither teased him for being a Squib nor for his looks, but they played pranks on him, pranks that frazzled him to no end. As if Peeves wasn't enough, he had to endure cheeky little brats racing about at night, rousing him from his bed at all hours. At times he wondered why he had gone there at all; hadn't he guessed at the torment he would find there? The only one who had been very kind to him was Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of all time. Argus could never forget the year when, remarkably, every single student was returning home for the Christmas holidays. Dumbledore had held a party in his office, and (much to Argus' amazement) he had been invited. They had sat about, eating a small feast and exchanging gifts, and ended the night by singing carols. Argus had kept silent; he knew no one would appreciate his screechy voice. He sat in a corner, clutching the first Christmas presents he had received for a long time, stroking his beloved cat Mrs. Norris. When they sang "What Child Is This?" Argus let a few unseen tears fall down his face.

Jack was still singing, his child's voice lifted to the stars in warmth and joy. Argus stood in the dark hallway, transfixed by his voice. For this voice was not the voice of a child. It was the voice of an angel.

'_It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old,  
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold:_  
"_Peace on earth, good will to men, from heav'n's all-gracious King";  
The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing._

_Still through the cloven skies they come, with peaceful wings unfurled,  
And still their heav'nly music floats o'er all the weary world:  
Above its sad and lowly plains they bend on hov'ring wing,  
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing._

_And ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low,  
Who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow,  
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing:  
O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.'_

Argus opened the door, and Jack's voice came to a halt. The little boy looked up into Argus' corpulent, frowning face and smiled brightly, his face almost seeming to shine with his joy. 'Merry Christmas, Mr. Filch!'


End file.
